The Last Night in London by Karen White (reading list .TXT) 📕

we don’t see them both clearly. Remember all those empty spots in the wedding album? Remember how we thought that someone had deliberately removed photographs? I can’t help but wonder if they were photos of the two women together since this is the only one I could find.”

Our eyes met again, but neither of us said anything.

“That’s why I wanted to look at this one more closely.” I turned the photo of the glamorous woman stepping out of the car so that it faced Colin. Looking closely at it in the clear morning light, I realized that I’d been right. What I’d thought I’d seen wasn’t a spot on the glass. I turned, looking for my phone, but Colin put his in my hand without my asking. As if he’d read my mind.

I flipped on the flashlight and aimed it at the photograph. “There,” I said, tapping on the glossy picture. “Look—there.”

I kept my finger pointed at the spot, waiting for him to see it, too. Eventually he pulled back. Regarded me. “There’s some sort of mark on her neck. It’s practically invisible unless one is looking for it.”

“That’s right.” I turned back to the wedding photograph, pointing to the woman standing next to Sophia, her head turned away from the photographer. “Precious said this is her, right? But her head is turned to the left, so no birthmark is visible. And in every single photograph we have of her, her head is turned or facing forward.”

“You could have just asked me if Nana has a birthmark. She’s always worn high collars or makeup to hide it, but I’ve seen it a few times. I think that she simply wanted perfection—she was a model, after all. Maybe that’s when it started.”

“That totally makes sense. But bear with me.” I began sorting through the cut photographs from the hatbox, the ones that had been deliberately sliced with scissors. I trained the phone flashlight on them again, wishing they were digital, that I could simply spread my fingers to make the pictures bigger.

“Without really analyzing all of these closely, I can’t say for sure, but from just a random sampling, it appears she’s not caring at what angle she’s being photographed from. And in the ones where we can see the left side of her neck, I don’t see the mark. Yes, it could be concealed with makeup. But it’s very odd, don’t you think?”

Colin nodded, his face closed in thought.

I pulled out the blown-up candid pictures of Precious I’d taken in her flat, and slid them over. “When I was snapping random photos of her just a few weeks ago, she made sure her face was turned to the left. As if it still mattered. As if she still didn’t want people to see it.”

When he eventually spoke, his voice sounded tight. “I appreciate your observations, but I think we’ve already agreed that even at ninety-nine, Nana is still vain, so it’s not like it’s out of character. And old habits are hard to break.”

“I agree. But that doesn’t explain the missing photographs in Sophia’s wedding album, or an entire hatbox full of cut-up pictures.”

“Or these,” Colin said as he picked up the stack of sealed letters.

I frowned at them, staring at the large block print of Graham’s name on them. Then I turned toward the stacks of Sophia’s letters, which I’d placed in bundles, separated by sender. I found the ones written by Precious after the war and placed them on the table in front of us. “Does this look like the same handwriting?”

We compared the two, our heads moving from one to the other like spectators at a tennis match. “It could be,” Colin said. “Except on the sealed letters the person printed in block letters. It’s really impossible to tell.”

“Unless we open the letters and look at the handwriting inside, which I’m not going to do.”

“Neither am I—not without Nana’s permission, at any rate.” Our eyes met, both of us contemplating the chances of receiving it.

I straightened as a thought occurred to me. “Where’s the photo of Graham—the one with the writing on the back? It’s definitely a woman’s handwriting. We can assume that’s Eva’s, right? Because she and Graham were . . .” I searched for the correct mid-twentieth-century word.

“Lovers,” Colin said with the hint of a smile, the word on his lips doing interesting things to my breathing.

“Yes, that. Do you know where the photo is?” I began searching through my backpack, trying to recall where I’d last seen it, and straightened as I remembered. “Never mind. Precious was looking for it, and I gave it to her—right before she collapsed. But I don’t think it’s in her room at the flat. I would have seen it when I picked up her purse.”

“She must have had it with her when she checked into the hospital, then.”

“Maybe it’s with her personal effects?” I said hopefully. “Or they gave everything to your parents.”

He checked his wristwatch—the fact that he wore a watch was one of the things I liked about him. “They said they’d call by eight with any updates. I’ll ask when I talk to them.”

I nodded absently, thinking about the valise. “I searched online for the name and address on that valise you brought over from your parents’ attic. The address doesn’t exist anymore—possibly because of an air raid during the war. I’ve got four phone numbers of people with the last name Nash that I can call, but otherwise I’m afraid it’s a dead end.”

“Unless Nana knows. Even Hyacinth Ponsonby seems to have run into a brick wall. I’m beginning to think that Nana is the only person alive who holds any of the answers. And we’re running out of time.”

I picked up one of the cut photographs, looking at the woman’s bright, open smile, and felt the same zing of recognition that had nothing to do with knowing what Precious looked like now.

Before I could examine the thought further, Colin’s cell phone rang—a normal ring that came